This short story from the early 70’s, tells of Therese Copeland a rather timid young submissive who falls into the clutches of her rather unpleasant and unscrupulous boss.
'Having been brought up never to say 'no' was the reason I found myself starting my first 'proper' full-time job at the age of 18. Six months prior to that I had worked in the office at my father's firm.
The fact that I was doing office work at all was a disappointment to my family. My two elder sisters left school with a clutch of 'O' and 'A' levels, went on to get good degrees at university, and took up challenging careers in different parts of the country. Mum and Dad were very proud of them. I, on the other hand, failed all my exams except Religious Knowledge, and my grades were so poor that it wasn't even worth re-sitting them. My ambition was just to get married and have babies. I never saw anything wrong with that, but my parents gave me the impression that I'd failed them, and paid for me to do a typing course. After that, as I say, I worked for Dad for a while but things didn't work out.
One problem was that Dad was determined not to show me any favouritism. Fair enough, I could understand that. But his company was well-established and a bit old-fashioned, and most of the staff had been there for years, so everything was very informal. Even the youngest employees called him by his first name, and felt free to share the odd joke with him. I, however, had to set an example by not joining in the office chatter, and working harder than anyone else - so any perks I might have hoped for as the boss's daughter never materialised.
My colleagues soon realised that I would not only do my own chores but was too timid to refuse to take on theirs as well. I used to see them grin at each other when I came in. They never filed when I could do it, and all the tea and coffee making was left completely to me. Soon I was no longer the copy typist but the general dogsbody. I didn't like the situation but couldn't put my father in an awkward position by complaining. Besides, he would have had to support the people he'd worked with longest, and found it much easier to pop his head round the door and say, "I'll have a cup of tea now please, Therese."
The crunch came when we had the switchboard installed. As I have said it was an old-fashioned sort of place, and until then there had just been one telephone with two outside lines and a couple of extensions. Ten years on, I realise the system was not exactly space-age technology, but at the time we were all completely thrown by it.
During the first week everyone made mistakes and cut off important callers by accident, but Dad just shrugged his shoulders, smiled, and told them to try again. That is, until it was my turn to try it out. Of course I cut someone off as well; then down came Dad and yelled at me in front of all the staff, calling me stupid and saying the system was simple. To my great embarrassment, I couldn't keep from sobbing as I frantically clicked switches up and down, making things even worse, while my father watched with his colleagues. I knew he didn't want to be lenient on his daughter. He also knew I wouldn't fight back. Why I didn't get up and leave, I don't know. I wouldn't dream of standing for that now.
After this Mom and Dad talked it over and decided I should try for an 'outside' job. Everything in my life was planned by my parents at the time, and a couple of interviews were arranged. When one of them actually offered me a job I accepted. I didn't particularly like the look of the place or the people, but I had the idea that if someone was willing to employ you it was wrong to turn them down.
I started at McKay, Brent and Piper without having any real idea what they did or what my duties were to be, because the interview had completely confused me. The three bosses had scrutinised me, all obviously competing for the job of 'top boss' among themselves. So, not knowing who to listen to, or answer, or agree with , I just said 'yes' and kept smiling. I had the feeling too, that they only gave me the job when they saw how easy going I was - and, perhaps even then, one particular boss there knew I'd probably take whatever he wanted to dish out. I really didn't fancy the place but I thought there was some law about taking jobs you were offered. Naive, wasn't I!
It was a very early start , and I had to be up by 5.30 to leave the house by 6.30. During the hour's travelling time on the train I got a brief rest before starting the day. I needed it. I have never worked in a colder, more unfriendly place. Everything was so official. I even wondered about the home lives of these people, or if they just went into little boxes at the end of the day. I just couldn't imagine them anywhere else except at the office. Also I used to read about young working women sharing flats and having wild, ravey social lives, but it never occurred to me that, with a bit of effort, I could be one of them. It just did not seem possible, because the only efforts I ever made ended in rebukes and failure.
Even worse than all this, the entire company was staffed by men - apart from me, though somehow I didn't think I counted - from the three bosses who gave it its name, through the small body of clerks to the office messenger. It was somehow natural, therefore, for me to take on extra duties in addition to the general office work , and once again I found myself running errands, providing refreshments, cleaning and taking the blame for everyone else's shortcomings. The job was too much for just one person, especially one with my lack of experience, yet I thought all the pressures and mistakes were due to my own inadequacies, and simply tried harder to get it as right as I could. I don't think I ever finished anything at all in the time I was there. At least that's how it seemed.
I was exhausted by the end of my first month, but still couldn't bring myself to simply say 'no' when I was asked to do something new. The three bosses each spent their time countermanding the instructions of the other two, and I could never decide whose instructions were supposed to take precedence. It seemed as if every time I put a piece of work in the typewriter and started on it, one of the men would take it out in mid-type and say 'Do this instead. Its more important.'
My three employers had different roles in the company, and it was hard to switch from one job to another without getting confused. Trying to juggle three extremely demanding and conflicting bosses was a nightmare. They were all very different individuals too. Robert McKay was quite elderly and walked in a way that suggested he had far more important things to do than run a business. He wore a constant frown , and I don't remember him ever saying so much as a 'hello' or 'goodbye' to me in all the time I was there.
The second, Robin Piper, was by far the nicest. He was fiftyish and terribly fat. Every morning he would sit behind his desk, rub his huge belly and say, "I could do with a roll, Therese." I used to love escaping from the office to go down to the delicatessen for his snacks, because it was always warm there, with steaming kettles and lots of food about. He was the only one of them I would have called 'human'.
The real pain was the youngest one, Trevor. How I hated him. He was the son of the original Mr. Brent and not long out of university. He had mousy colouring and, despite at first appearing to be friendly, was the most unpleasant character I have ever come across. He dressed badly (though I'm a fine one to talk) and didn't seem to realise that his tie absolutely never went with his shirt - which was always slightly dirty, probably due to the fact that he wasn't likely to have a girl-friend willing to wash them. His work involved a lot of figures, and I was forever making mistakes when I typed it up.
I spent each day at work praying for it to be five o' clock, and all my leisure hours dreading my return to the office. The worst period came around 4.45 p.m. I would invariably finish one piece of work, but not have enough time to complete another before going home. I was not allowed to go home until it was exactly on the hour, but neither was I allowed to leave work half-typed overnight. So during these last minutes I had to try and make myself look busy, without being found out - or else end up doing a lot of unpaid overtime (which was more often the case) while everyone else had gone off back to their families or the pub.
On one particular evening I was getting ready to leave because it was, quite literally, only a couple of minutes away from 5pm. I suppose I should have learned better by then than to try and get away with even a second! Sure enough Trevor Brent came out of his office, saw me picking up my handbag and motioned for me to follow him back in. I felt my heart sink into my stomach as I entered. It was a musty, ill-lit room with a high ceiling, tiny window and flaking grey paint. He sat down importantly behind his vast wooden desk, a short thin man in a badly fitting suit that matched the paintwork.
"Leaving early, Miss Copeland?"
He lounged in his swivel chair and templed his fingers under his chin, then I noticed again how darkly stained they were from nicotine. I stood there in my unbuttoned coat , wishing I could vanish into the woodwork. I was wearing the frumpish suit again, and although my glasses had been repaired, my pudding-basin haircut and inexpert attempts to glamorise myself with make-up made me look like a child in a dressing-up game. Even now the memory of how I must have looked, and how helpless I felt, makes me cringe with embarrassment.
I stammered my explanations about having finished my work for the day, and the problems I had getting home before dark. He glanced at the wall-clock and asked when my next bus was due.
"In ten minutes time," I replied, obviously anxious to get away. "I'll have to wait another half-hour if I miss it, and then I won't make the connection with my train,and have to wait another hour." To my horror I heard a tremor in my voice, and my lowered eyelashes felt damp.
"Do your parents worry if you are late?" he asked. "Do you get into trouble?"
"Oh no," I assured him, "In fact, they're getting quite used to it."
"Well there's no problem about you staying until your appointed time and earning your salary then," he retorted brusquely. "Is there!" Then he proceeded to lecture me on my responsibilities and obligations to the firm, all fairly meaningless and repetitive, his eyes glancing now and again at the clock. I don't know why, but I just felt totally unable to move or break away as his voice went on. I suppose it was because, whatever I may have thought of him personally, Trevor Brent represented authority - and that fact alone seemed to drain all my energy and will.
Suddenly he stopped talking and told me I could go. It was twelve minutes past five and he knew I had missed my bus. As I walked to the door he called after me, "Tell Mommy you were in detention," and chuckled heartily.
About a week later I again found myself with 10 or 15 minutes to kill at the end of the afternoon and decided to occupy myself typing a list of things I had to do at home, just so I'd look busy. At one minute to five Trevor suddenly appeared, pulled the page from my typewriter and said, "Never mind that, whatever it is, I need these accounts typed NOW."
He thrust a wad of papers at me and walked off, still holding my list of domestic tasks. I went cold with dismay at the thought of him reading them. Looking at the reams of figures he had given me, I calculated that they would take at least an hour to prepare. Miserably, but resigned to my duties, I set the tabs for the columns and was just aligning the paper when Mr. Brent stormed through the door. The place was now empty but for the two of us, and he simply said , "MISS Copeland!" and motioned me with a crooked finger to follow him back to his office.
I stood in front of his desk, literally shaking in my shoes as he waved the list I'd been typing in my face, and ranted on about how dare I use the firm's time and equipment for my personal business. Then he rose from his creaking executive chair and came around the desk, then stood so close to me that I was forced to inhale smoke from his cigar. It made me cough and blink and I flinched from him.
"What do you think I should do about this sorry state of affairs?" he rasped.
I stuttered that I didn't know.
"Shall I tell my partners?"
I shrugged my shoulders and snivelled a little and brought out a Kleenex to blow my nose.
"Shall I tell your parents about your slackness and incompetence?"
I whimpered that I would prefer him not to. I didn't like to imagine what Dad would have said.
"Shall I sack you on the spot for abuse of your position?"
"Oh no!" I implored, making it sound as if the horrible little job was a true vocation which I was desperate not to be deprived of.
"So it rather looks like another detention, doesn't it!" he said, returning to his seat. "Well we had better make sure you learn your lesson this time. How can we do that?"
I was so relieved not to be fired that I didn't care. I assumed he would find me even more typing to do before I was allowed home, or get me to rearrange the filing system.
"I think I'll give you lines to do," Trevor snapped. "Yes - go to your desk and type out, five hundred times without errors: "The property of MacKay, Brent and Piper is not to be used for my personal convenience." Off you go now!"
He had to tell me to go again, because I was so amazed at what he said I thought it must be some kind of joke. He seemed serious enough though so I choked back any questions and went off to type my 'lines'. It took me three hours to complete the task, thinking only that the moment I was finished I could go home. During all that time my boss stayed in his office with the door open, watching me. It seemed unbelievable. He wouldn't even let me make myself a cup of coffee and, by the time I typed the final line, I was tired, hungry , thirsty and more miserable than I would ever have believed possible. I took the 'work' to him and he went through it word for word to check for mistakes. He seemed disappointed not to find any.
Trevor passed the pages back across his desk to me. Then,as I automatically turned towards the door to leave, something else he was saying finally impressed itself on my exhausted brain.
"Read what you have typed aloud to me," he repeated.
I blinked down at the first line on the top page and swallowed hard.
"The property of MacKay, Brent and Piper is not to be used for my personal convenience" I read out, then looked up at him. "Can I go now, please?" I whispered.
"Go on!" In great relief I ran to the door to collect my coat when he stopped me with a shout. "I mean go on and read them all," he said with a sneer.
Damp rushed to my eyes.I took off my glasses and dabbed the wetness. "Please let me go home," I begged, becoming seriously worried about getting a train at that time of night. But Trevor made me read the statement out another 499 times, and sat through my desperate recitation obviously relishing the power he had over me. I know it seems impossible nowadays that a girl would stand there and obey a command like that, but I did. When I had uttered the hateful sentence for the last time, I could hardly see through my tears, but he made me stand there for several minutes in sniffling silence before he said that he 'trusted I would remember the dictum for as long as I worked there, and would never steal the company's resources again.'
Then, as I once more made for the door, he said, very quietly but distinctly, "Next time I shall take even sterner measures, Therese Copeland!" I was too relieved to at last be going home to even analyse what this might imply.
Several weeks passed, and the incident was never referred to by anyone, so at least I knew that Trevor had not boastfully told his partners or the other staff how he had kept me 'in detention' like a naughty girl and given me 'lines'. At the time I was grateful for his discretion - but in hindsight he clearly had other plans for me that he wanted kept private. Meanwhile I tried to pace my work so that I was occupied precisely between the hours of 9am and 5pm, and managed to rearrange my route from home to work so that I could do the journey in just over an hour in both directions. The job was still boring and onerous, but I suppose I had resigned myself to working there until I retired,as there simply wasn't anything else to do - unless I got married which seemed highly unlikely.
As I was still living with my parents I found myself able to save a regular sum of money, and set about improving my wardrobe and my overall appearance. I started to let my hair grow longer in the hope of it being styled into a more flattering shape, and I bought a couple of plain but smart dresses. Mum actually said how much nicer I was looking.
One day I made an extra effort with my appearance, because I had arranged to go out with some of the girls I'd been to typing college with. I pinned my hair up to disguise the fact that it was being 'grown out' and was pleased with the effect the cap of light brown waves gave. I wore a navy blue shirt-waister dress and matching shoes, and although there was little I could do about my spectacles, I felt that I had made the best of myself, and that my ex-colleagues would be impressed by the general improvement in my looks.
Just after lunch I received a call from one of them, Janice Price, saying she would be late, and asking me to let the others know that she would be joining us in the restaurant instead of in the pub where we had planned to meet. But as soon as I had replaced the receiver, I knew my conversation had been overheard. I stood frozen, not daring to turn around and face the cold, rodent-like features that watched me.
"Five o' clock in my office, Therese," Trevor Brent said to my back, and I heard his door close.
I felt as if a pail of icy water had been thrown over me. Cold talons seemed to sink into my shoulders, spreading their chill down my back and into my thighs. Now I too would be late meeting the girls - only I certainly dared not risk telephoning any of them from the office to explain. Perhaps they wouldn't wait for me; maybe they would change the restaurant we were meant to move on to. I had looked forward to this evening so much but Trevor's command had thrown me into a panic. A night out with a group of people I didn't really know too well may not have seemed much of a treat to some, but my social life was virtually non existent, and an invitation to Buckingham Palace could not have seemed more exciting.
And now it was all going wrong thanks to the tyrant I still felt unable to oppose. I honestly thought that he would sack me if I refused to see him. This job wasn't much but it was all I had.
I typed slowly and inaccurately for the rest of the day. I mislaid files that were literally at my fingertips. I trembled with fear and loathing at the thought of Trevor Brent once again humiliating me and gloating over my powerlessness. And then I recalled, with an odd chill of curiosity and fright, his parting shot the last time I had been 'in detention' - the next time he would take 'even sterner measures'.
I went to his office, in a bit of a shivering funk, at exactly the right time; but one of the clerks was still working so Mr. Brent said my punishment couldn't start until everyone had gone home. He didn't seem to notice how much 'nicer' I was looking, or comment on it, but merely sent me back to my desk with instructions to type out the same lines I had done before until we were alone. I had produced the odious statement about forty times before I saw the light over the clerk's desk switched off. I took the line straight in to Trevor. Time was moving on, and I was hoping to get the session over and done with as soon as possible.
"How many times did you type this on the previous occasion?" he asked, and raised his eyebrows in mock surprise when I told him. "Five hundred, eh? And still you haven't taken its lesson to heart. What am I to do with you?"
"I don't know, Mr. Brent.....sir," I amended hastily. I hoped that he had forgotten, or perhaps never meant, his threat about 'sterner measures'. "It was an incoming call," I blurted. "It didn't cost the firm anything."
"Nonsense, girl!" he roared. "The company pays your salary, doesn't it? And that salary is paid for your labour. Whilst you are arranging your social life you are not performing your paid duties. Agreed?"
I stood before his desk, squirming in my shoes. I had never known him shout so loudly, or look so goggle-eyed and frightening. It seemed to sap all the strength from my legs so I could hardly stand up, let alone think of walking out.
"Agreed?" he boomed again. Trevor was opening his lower desk drawer and fumbling for something. I couldn't imagine what he was doing.
"Yes sir," I faltered. "I mean no - no I'm not," I added in confusion.
"Then you must reimburse the company, mustn't you, Miss Copeland?"
"Yes, Mr. Brent," I said, honestly believing he meant it. "Are you going to stop the money out of my wages? I'll pay you now, if you'll just let me go. How..how much?"
He leapt out of his seat with a snarl, that was probably intended to be a smile, contorting his face. In his hand was a long, whippy cane. I just stared at it in disbelief, my feet glued to the floor. I think I may even have smiled in an incredulous, almost hysterical way. It seemed so ridiculous and impossible to imagine that he might use it.
"No, Miss Copeland," he growled, "I am not going to take it out of your wages. I'm going to take it out of your bottom. Get over!"
Trevor strode towards me and I flinched back, like some scene from a comic strip 'Little Red Riding Hood'. He placed a heavy paw-like hand on the back of my neck and pushed me forward until my knees struck the edge of his big mahogany desk. Then, incredibly, I was bending right across it.
As my upper body pressed against the cold, hard surface I felt nothing but shock and disbelief. I forgot how to breathe; this was not, could not be, happening to me! I remember how my mind went into a sort of dazed panic, and how horribly aware I suddenly was of my bottom and my legs. Then all that blotted out; and I became conscious only of the dry dusty smell and texture of the desk-top I was sprawled across. It sounds weird but I found myself thinking that I should polish it the next day. Trevor had made no attempt to tidy his work surface, and my eyes were on the same level as his pile of papers and leaflets. His ashtray was close to my face too, and the sight of his cigar-stubs and the rank odour made me feel sick to my stomach.
Then I was jerked very much back to reality by a thin, heavy pain streaking across my buttocks. I tried to struggle up, but his hand clamped down hard on the small of my back, and I heard him shout something before another slash across my bottom made me wail out. "No, please, NO!" and the papers and ashtray and desk-top all blurred into a mist.
The tremendous jolting sensations in my rear sounded deafening, but with my dress, petticoats, tights and panties in between my buttocks and the cane, the pain didn't feel too terrible. I was certainly aware of the blows landing, but it was nothing like the sharp, searing strokes I had sometimes got across my hands from Dad when I'd been naughty at home.
After about a dozen of these hard, haphazard strokes, Trevor paused, but told me not to move. My chin was resting on that desk-top, and my arms were stretched out over the papers he had been working on. I wanted to rub some of the heat out of my behind, but sort of knew that this was not going to be allowed. And, amazingly, not even then - not for a single moment - did it occur to me to get up and walk out. It just felt that I had to take this like I had taken everything else. It was just one more humiliation on top of all the rest, and he had every right to punish me. He was my boss. That's just how it seemed back then.
Trevor stood watching me for a while in silence, panting a bit, and all I could think of was how big my bottom would look in this position, that he was probably staring at it, and that maybe he would let me go off for my evening with the girls now. My breasts were squashed flat against the wooden work-top, and I was aware of every inch of my body from my neck to my chubby ankles. My glasses had fallen off and seeing the world through a wet, myopic blur increased my sense of being lost and completely out of control.
"You hardly felt that," he growled. "OK, stand up!" I obeyed gratefully, thankful it was all over, tugging my frock back into place and replacing one of my shoes that had come off during my caning.
"Oh you needn't bother arranging your clothes," he said with a sneer, "just take them all off!"
"NOOOO!" I squealed, shock rendering me uncharacteristically rebellious.
"I say 'Yes', Miss Copeland....and I mean NOW!" His voice was insistent, his eyes glared. We stared at each other, me hot, shocked and confused, him cold and sneering. "If it will help you to obey," he sneered,"I'll give you directions. First, unbutton your dress."
I did so. In fact my fingers seemed to work of their own accord for my mind was in turmoil.
"Now take it off," I gaped at him. "Come on, raise the hem and lift your dress over your head. Good, that's the way!" It all appeared to be unreal as if someone else was doing this, not me. "Now take off the slip," I heard his voice demanding. "Hook your thumbs into the waist and push the garment down your legs. Now step out of it and kick it away. See, it's not difficult is it!"
Somehow I had obeyed his instructions, but my arms instinctively crossed over my brassiered breasts.
"Now your shoes," he urged. "Good girl, now the other one. Now your pantie-tights." This time I hesitated, as if coming out of a dream. "Come along," he snapped. "Get them off -NOW!"
I got them off and stood before him in just my bra and panties, my eyes clenched shut. It wasn't possible that he would make me go further. I had never been naked in front of any man and no one could possibly demand that!
"Right let's stop playing games, shall we?" Trevor barked. "Get your bra and pants off. I don't care in what order, but I haven't got all night!"
My hands sort of took over completely at that, because my brain had ceased functioning. Overwhelmed by his sneering, authoritative voice, they fluttered between the clasp at the back of my bra, and my panties, as if they couldn't decide which to remove first; which would be the least shaming. In the end they unhooked my bra and let it fall to the floor, my large breasts jiggling with such unaccustomed freedom. Then I was stooping and pushing my knickers down my legs.
Suddenly I was naked, and terribly aware of my shame, and crying bitterly.
"Hands by your sides, Miss Copeland," he ordered briskly. " No modesty allowed in Mr. Brent's detention. My you're a hairy little girl aren't you! Now turn around. I want to see your arse!"
I turned round in acute embarrassment, and shuddered when one of his fingers traced each of the marks left by the cane. Then he grasped each of my buttocks in his hands and tightened his grip until I yelped from the pain.
"Fleshy down there, aren't you!" he mocked. "You'll not have felt a thing from my previous efforts. Let's see how well you can take the rest of your punishment....and do stop snivelling, girl!"
"Please, Mr. Brent," I begged. "I'll do anything - I'll resign if you like. But please don't cane me any more. Please let me get dressed and go. I-I'm late for an evening out. I promise not to tell anyone."
He laughed at my pleadings. "Oh I'm certain you won't tell anyone," he scoffed. "And I've no intention of letting you resign or letting you go. Not now we are getting to understand each other so well. Now you know what a real detention is all about. Put your hands on your head and face me."
I did as he said, aware that raising my arms like this lifted my breasts a little, made them jut out more firmly. Trevor Brent noticed too and stroked each one from my armpits to my nipples, letting his thumbs linger on my now erect rosebuds. The sensation was both repellent and well, nice but in a way I hated myself for.
"Some people like to spank big breasts," he mused,as if to himself, " but I'm not one of them, Miss Copeland," he added, looking me straight in the eye. "Keep your hands on your head and your legs straight, and bend right over until your forehead rests on the seat of that chair."
I moved numbly to the chair where I usually sat to take dictation, and bent forward at the waist to position myself as he had instructed. It was uncomfortable, and I was extremely aware of how the loose skin of my tummy hung, and the way my breasts were unnaturally elongated. And also, of course, how high and revealingly my bottom was thrust.
"Let's see how you take twelve strokes on your bare bottom," Trevor said casually. "So that they don't take you by surprise or get delivered too closely together, I shall allow you to count them in advance of their being dealt. Do you understand?"
"Yes sir." And I did. This at least I knew how to do - obey precise instructions.
"Good. Off you go."
"One..." I counted, and my bottom seemed to shrink with dread. A split second later I yelled out as a terrible burning pain shot through it when the cane landed. The stroke was so hot then it felt cold; then hot again; then the burning-freezing feeling spread. All I knew was, I wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible - but Trevor had made me dictate the pace of my own punishment.
"Two," I groaned. There was a pause and I tried not to cry out as the whippy cane again zipped across my buttocks, and I felt the urge to smother the terrible stinging with my hands. Then, "Three," I whimpered almost at once, inviting an immediate repeat of that shocking pain in my anxiety to be allowed to go. The cane flashed down with a fearful hiss.
By the time the sixth stroke had been called and given, I was hopping awkwardly on my left leg, my right foot stroking in a deranged fashion at its opposite calf. My fingers were still interlaced about my head , which was trying to burrow through the leather seat of the chair. The pain in my bottom was unbelievable. But, desperate as I was to get out of there, I wouldn't, couldn't call the next number.
"Stand up, Miss Copeland," Trevor ordered. Again, he was breathing heavily. I hoped this meant he was tired, had taken pity on me, and that my ordeal was over. But his next words soon disabused me of such notions.
"Stand facing the wall over there," he grunted, wiping the sweat from his face, "And keep your hands on your head."
As I straightened up from the chair and walked across the room , I was very aware of his gaze following my bare, rippling flesh, and I was tormented by the aggravation suffered by each weal on my bottom-cheeks as the fatty mounds wobbled at every step.
"Move your elbows forward until they touch the wall," he now instructed. "Push your bottom out towards me! Good. Now ask me to continue your thrashing like a good little office-girl."
I fought back the tears and sobs and managed to choke,"Please, Mr. Brent, continue caning my bottom. Seven."
And seven it was, then eight. Next nine. I called out the numbers in a kind of nightmare, and after a pause I heard the cane whistle through the air each time before it embedded itself in the abundantly fleshy pillows of my bottom. I had always been embarrassed by the size of my bottom , and to have him look at it naked was beyond embarrassing; but that was nothing now compared to the sting of that cane. All the accumulated pain from the individual strokes was beginning to merge so that I felt an incredible heat all over my buttocks, with pinprick lines of a more intense kind of pain that felt absolutely savage. I forced myself to maintain the position. After all some voice inside me whispered that it would soon be over. "Ten," I called out.
Just when I thought it was impossible to register any more pain in my behind, Trevor Brent brought his weapon up quickly from low down so that it skimmed the crease at the top of my thighs. I shrieked from the shock of it - but even as I did so I heard myself call for the eleventh hit.
The stroke came lower still, midway down my thighs, crossing the backs of both legs and burning, scorching, blazing....
"Twelve..." I gave a choking yell, and with the word came tears of relief that my ordeal was over, even before the cane landed. And land it did, with the same searing urgency as the previous eleven, igniting my whole body with anguish. I slumped against the cold paintwork and howled like some poor whipped animal for I don't know how long, then I sank sobbing on my haunches, rubbing at the pain in my bottom; then stopping because that hurt, then rubbing again. I no longer cared about my outing with the girls. After what seemed a long time, Mr. Brent told me to stand up and then lectured me about good office practice. He told me I could expect further detentions if I failed to meet his standards , and threatened that he might get one of the other employees to assist the next time I was punished.
Most of his threats I missed, because I was so agonised by my caning and so humiliated by my continuing nudity in front of him, that his words didn't register.
Eventually, Trevor said that I could get dressed and leave - but to make damn sure I was on time for work the next day. I just pulled on my clothes, and my hair was a mess, but it didn't seem to matter; I wasn't going anywhere. He told me that he would want to see me in 'detention' every night from then on where I would take down my knickers so he could inspect the marks of the cane until they had completely gone. I simply said "Very well, sir." and left.
I suppose some girls would simply not have gone back to work there, or may even have reported the incident. In fact I nearly chickened out of going in the next day - but somehow, when it came to it, I knew I had to. I stayed with the firm for another six years until it closed down fro financial reasons, which didn't surprise me that much because I'd begun to realise how badly disorganised they were.
Things never got any better for me, but I sort of got used to them. I even got used to Trevor and the awful, humiliating things he made me do. It seems strange to say it now but it gave me a strange sense of security. At least I knew where I stood!
THE END
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